


climb, seraph (there are more memories to make)

by Unuora



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Angst, But I'm sorry as I trip inelegantly through well respected literature, Happy Ending, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, and also, dante's inferno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 18:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21166190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unuora/pseuds/Unuora
Summary: Lucifer must think he's funny, truly, sending Crowley on a long, endless trip up from Hell with only the hope that Aziraphale's following. But he climbs, each step a stone of doubt, weighing Crowley down until he's sure he'll sink.(But let the fates and furies, who now gather and gossip, tell you that he was victorious. It was what they whispered in the dark, now, surreptitious, "did you hear the story of how the felled angel waded through the very strings of fate in the nine layers of hell to save his lover?")





	climb, seraph (there are more memories to make)

**Author's Note:**

> this is a blatant bastardization of both a) dante's inferno and b) the myth of eurydice and orpheus so c) i'm sorry to anyone who knows more than i do, i'm under qualified

With Crowley pleading at his throne, Lucifer kneels down and says, “Alright.”

“Al—what?” Aziraphale can practically see the gears in Crowley’s head grinding to a halt. “What are your conditions?”

“Smart,” Lucifer laughs. “You know Hell well.”

“Tell me.”

“The angel,” Lucifer says, waving lackadaisically at Aziraphale, who is watching a few feet back. “Will follow you up to Earth as you wish. But you are not to lay eyes on him until you reach the surface.”

“Eurydice,” Aziraphale whispers himself, but no one hears him. It’s too late to wonder, but he can’t help but wish that he shoved more books into Crowley’s hands, made him catch up with society. Instead it’s all he can to watch as Crowley’s eyes flicker warily from him to Lucifer.

“Why should I trust you if I can’t see him?”

Lucifer laughed in response and snapped his fingers, drawing Aziraphale forward without his consent. He stumbles over his feet, an inelegant flail. “Can you trust him?”

“I’ll follow,” Aziraphale says once he gets his bearings, deathly quiet. Crowley stared at him, heavy with a question that Aziraphale couldn’t decipher, before his eyes flickered back to Lucifer.

“Then go on, little duck,” Lucifer smiled down at Crowley, pitch black wings flaring out behind him as he stood, tall as mountains. “It’s a long walk.”

Oh, in this story the viper didn’t kill Aziraphale; in this story he was a shining beacon, acidic and lethal, ready to tear every stone out of Hell to bring an angel back to Earth.

(And let the fates and furies, who now gather and gossip, tell you that he was victorious. It was what they whispered in the dark, now, surreptitious, _did you hear the story of how the felled angel waded through the very strings of fate in the nine layers of hell to save his lover?_)

IX

“I never understood the whole frozen thing,” Crowley is saying, as he has been talking since they first set off. It’s been an incessant dialogue, nothing to interrupt him, matched with staccato bursts of swearing. “I don’t know where the whole—whole friggin ‘when hell freezes over’ thing came from, because here we are, frozen as hell.” He kicks a little chunk of ice far enough to make it go soaring into the darkness.

No matter how loud Aziraphale yells Crowley doesn’t seem to hear him, so on he goes, talking himself in circles.

“I hate coming this far down. It’s cold enough in London, and then I get to see little Lulu—” He cuts off, stopping so abruptly that if Aziraphale was corporeal he would’ve bumped into him. He’s got his hands pressed to his eyes, hissing out a breath. “What the fuck is happening.”

When Aziraphale looks over Crowley’s shoulder and sees nothing he begins to worry about his sanity, but a moment later it hits him. It’s dagger sharp and wicked hot, like a fire poker to the brain, and Aziraphale clenches his eyes against the dizzying intensity of it. When he opens them it’s like watching a movie, up close, and he’s staring at an angel that looks just like Crowley.

“Seraphel,” someone says, but in the crowds of angels it’s too hard to tell who.

“I know,” the angel Crowley says, turning out his hands, pleading. The council of angels around him seem to loom closer.

“Oh my God,” Aziraphale breathes.

“You’ve committed treason,” an angel steps forward and Aziraphale recognizes him as Metatron, stern and prim, wings tucked close to him. Aziraphale hasn’t seen him in person since before Eden. “You know it is a sin to question Her, and we cannot have defectors in this time of violence.”

“It’s not—I don’t reject the Almighty! I just don’t want to use the autonomy She gave us to murder and oppress—”

“Quiet!” Gabriel is illuminated in the light, eyes glowing purple, face expressionless. “We do not have space in Heaven for thoughts like yours.”

And then Seraphel is Falling, burning, straight into the pits of Hell.

“Darling,” Lucifer’s face bleeds in from the redhot fire of it, when the fire cedes back into fumes. “You will be welcome here, little firecracker. Come, now.”

Lucifer is pulling Seraphel from the pit he Fell to, his predatory grin all the more feral and hungrier in the darkness. He sees that smile a hundred times, a thousand times, grinning down at him with perverse fondness. But oh, Seraphel kept failing, didn’t he. Couldn’t (wouldn’t) kill angels in the celestial war. Couldn’t find vengeance for his Falling. He’d hold hellfire blades in his numb hands, unable to complete his job. That smile grew regretful, angry.

“I could’ve let you boil in the sulfur for eternity,” Lucifer says, scowling now. “I dragged you from the pits and you’re too ungrateful to do what I ask.”

“I didn’t Fall to be someone else’s chew toy,” Seraphel says, but his voice wobbles, just a bit.

“No,” Lucifer agrees, examining his nails lazily. “Perhaps if you try you’ll be worth that.” His eyes are reddish and he glances at Seraphel, smiling when he takes a step back. Before he can make it more than a step or two, Lucifer’s pressing two fingers to Seraphel’s forehead. “Until then, you’ll crawl.”

And then Seraphel, fallen one, begins to morph. Aziraphale clenches his eyes against the horror of it, trying to drown out the sound of Seraphel’s screams until it goes all too silent. When Aziraphale opens his eyes it’s Crowley sitting on the ground, chest heaving.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, before he can stop himself and realize he’s still in Hell, still trapped in this foolish game. He makes it two, three steps forward, a bare inch from Crowley’s shoulder before he realizes that he shouldn’t—he can’t. There are rules he must follow, and he must follow Crowley. He startles badly when Crowley begins to laugh, throwing his head back, and this action makes Aziraphale stumble back several feet.

“Lucifer you goddamned bastard,” Crowley swears, shaking his head. “I don’t know how he got in my head. Where is he getting stuff like this, _fuck_.” He stumbles to his feet, shaking himself in an attempt to focus.

“Come on, Aziraphale,” Crowley says after a moment of orienting himself, back to the icy climb out of Hell. “As if a little falling is going to scare me, hah, there’s a warm, soft bed in Mayfair waiting for me and no thrice forsaken tricks are going to stop me from getting there.”

Aziraphale’s relieved to hear Crowley’s pointless monologue, the only thing drowning out Seraphel’s incessant screaming. Time to time he’ll make his own unheard commentary, but for the most part he listens.

VIII

“Just—just stay close,” Crowley says, voice uncharacteristically soft. “It’s dark here and it, well, it will be for a while.”

Obligingly, Aziraphale shuffles closer, watching the tense line of Crowley’s shoulders. With every step Crowley grows tenser, growing anticipation.

“I think the game of this was supposed to be, ah, not knowing what was around the corner,” Crowley says, trying at flippant. “I always found it easier to get lost. No one ever, y’know, made a map, so I suspect there are places down here that have been untouched since creation. Which is a thought.”

True enough, it’s getting darker and darker with every step, until it’s so dark that Aziraphale is following Crowley’s voice more than his silhouette.

“I hope that we don’t get another one of those, uh, wonderful trips down memory lane,” Crowley says suddenly. “Sorry for that by the way, ah, I didn’t—you didn’t need to see that. Guess you, hah, know why they called me Crawley after that.”

“I’m sorry he hurt you,” Aziraphale says, even if Crowley can’t hear.

“Guess you woulda known that with the whole, y’know, snake thing. Probably not as inventive as ole Lucifer thought it was.” Aziraphale hears more than sees Crowley shrug. “That’s one thing that the angels upstairs and him have in common, I guess. I don’t know why _wordplay_ is what skirted their—grk.”

Aziraphale hears more than sees Crowley stumble, stopping. He knows what’s coming the moment he hears it, but he’s still not ready for it when it happens.

Aziraphale tries to turn away from it, this invasion of Crowley’s privacy, but no matter how hard he tries he sees it flashing behind his eyelids. He hears the sound of voices ringing in his ears even when he’s covered them, ducking away.

He can’t help but see it, and he sees Seraphel is standing in Heaven, the Heaven that existed before the celestial war. Something glorious and majestic, glowing with holiness. When he turns against the light he shines, golden, and he jogs to greet a group of angels.

Then it’s them, the same group of angels hiding as Heaven is being torn to pieces.

“You said that God wanted us to be free,” one angel hisses, slamming Seraphel against a wall the moment they’re sure they’re safe. “All your talk about finding God’s will and now She is tearing Heaven apart for our transgressions!”

“It’s not our fault!” Seraphel says, not fighting the angels grip. “I didn’t know the council would turn so quickly to violence over words.”

“It’s not just the council with swords, Seraphel,” another angel says. “I wanted to do good for the Almighty, not shed blood—”

“I’m not— I’m just advocating for _knowledge_, I just wanted _answers—_”

Then it’s Seraphel, in the burning pools of Hell, watching as the streaks of stardust pelt down from Heaven. Every fiery burst he feels in his skin, deep and blistering. It isn’t long before he’s standing, surrounded by the scorched husks of his friends, skeletal and rotting.

“You led us here,” they all say, haunted, faceless. “I would be in Heaven if you hadn’t pulled me down.”

So Seraphel turns away, one after another, and then he becomes Crawley and then he can truly hide.

He tucks himself into the corners of human society, lurking, sewing temptations when he’s told to. Lucifer had found temptation a very fitting role for Crawley, and so he sat on Earth, awaiting memo after memo.

This, at least, he can modify. A temptation doesn’t have to be a death blow. It can be irritation, hilarity. It can be chaos.

(He finds he enjoys chaos.)

Sometimes it is a deathblow, though. Crawly makes a fire at a dormant volcano to ensue chaos and instead of fear and disquiet he creates a stampede of people fleeing their homes. Two people die in the hysteria, only found after the city had calmed, and Crawly holds the little boy’s corpse until he was at risk of being seen.

He watched it all, he did, a tragedy he couldn’t look away from. He saw the boy fall, panicked in the cacophony of yelling he didn’t understand. He’d been too far away to help, and truly he knew even if he had been close enough it was not of his right to help.

He catches a glimpse of Death lurking, ghastly eyes hollow, and he takes a piece of Crawly even if he hadn’t meant to. Instead, Crawly, new age demon, carries his regret to the deepest layer of Hell.

“No matter,” Lucifer says, pleased now, in Crawly’s success. “A trivial cost to your overwhelming success.”

But Crawley goes back to the surface and sits with the city folk, eating and laughing and grieving. The whole time he thinks _oh, vampire, if you’d only drown in it. Sick little liar._

Aziraphale opens his eyes and he sees nothing but darkness. He doesn’t dare move lest he put himself in Crowley’s sights, lest he wanders away. He sits where he stopped, deep in the empty darkness of it.

“Fuck,” Crowley swears eventually. Aziraphale hears him pull himself up a bit further left than he was expecting, a few feet farther away than he wanted. The scuffle of his feet against loose dirt makes Aziraphale scramble to his feet, breath held. “I hadn’t meant—oh, fuck this, what does Lucifer think he’s doing—” Crowley sighs, angry, pent up and terrified. “Let’s go.”

The rambling dialogue starts up again in a few minutes time, but this time it doesn’t make Aziraphale feel that much better.

VII

Crowley never stops talking, but he keeps an incessant march forward, like it’s him who’s on the death row. His pace increases as the darkness eases until he’s hiking a fast pace through the craggy terrain like it’s a race. It’s the only time that Aziraphale’s glad that he has no corporation, because ghosts can’t get stitches.

“Sorry,” Crowley’s pace falters, but only barely. “I shouldn’t rush. What if I lose you—” He sighs and slows his punishing pace. Aziraphale gratefully catches up.

“This place is my least favorite, all the blood and the,” Crowley gestures a hand out to the pools of congealing blood that are growing in frequency as they continue their hike. “It’s, as you would say, unsavory.”

Aziraphale harrumphs, feeling a little smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

“No sense in rushing, I just want to be out of here by now,” Crowley says. “But I do know how much you hate running.”

“It’s unkind to tease when I can’t respond, dear,” Aziraphale tuts.

“Yes, yes,” Crowley says, waving an arm. “I know, take in the scenery, blah blah. This scenery isn’t so hot. Well, temperature hot, aesthetics, not so much.”

They’ve made good progress, a couple hours since the last memory incident, and Aziraphale begins to hope that perhaps they’re done with it all. Of course, it’s that thought that seems to spark it.

“I don’t know what he’s going to show you, but I’m sorry.” Crowley suddenly blurts. “I know—that means little, but I am.”

Before Aziraphale can even wonder what he’s talking about he’s hit with another wave, stronger this time, enough that he barely feels it before he’s breathing through Crowley’s memories.

Seraphel roiling in Hell, his wings burning off him in great sloughs.

“A God who throws us into flames,” he laughs through the agony. “Why are we supposed to follow you?”

He’s cursing at Her, through the plagues, through the Flood, through the birth of Adam and Eve.

“Damn you for designing a world with so much suffering,” he laughs but it sounds more like a sob. “I don’t want a part of this.”

He snaps and a cathedral collapses in on itself, all beautiful stonework and carved statues fragmenting like dropped eggshells. He stares into the fire as scripture burns itself, as he tempers himself with petty vandalism.

“I doubt you’re paying attention,” he scoffs, looking at the ash with disregard. “I don’t know why I’m doing this.”

Perhaps that’s where he was supposed to lay down his rage. That’s not how it happens, because it’s there, in Mesopotamia, where he drinks and it rises again. It’s him, a hollow and empty husk, trying to fill himself to the brim with booze and lethargy. Someone sees him, someone sees his eyes, and before he can resist, he’s hauled to the ground.

It’s hardly a moment, just the catalyst to spark the rage back into an inferno, to fill that void with anger again. It’s him, fighting back for once, tooth and nail, and this time he wins.

(He doesn’t, really.)

He kills a man in cold blood, stands there with the cooling wetness of it on his hands. There must be cacophony, a riot of observers, but everything is silent beneath the rising buzz of his head. In the end he flees without looking back. In the empty desert, vast and purposeless, he sits and stares at the sky.

“Is this your revenge?” He asks. “Are you trying to get me to admit something?” He asks. “Do you want me to regret?” He asks.

He gets no response, so he says, “I know, I know,” over and over, until maybe She’ll hear him.

The next time it happens he lets it, a ragdoll in a man’s hand, held aloft.

“Demon,” the man curses, and Crawly can’t even deny it, so he doesn’t know why he fought it at all.

Every blow is sinking him deeper, further in the sand. He feels it in every rib, bruised and broken, along the split of his lip and the crack of his teeth. The reckless haughtiness of him is what makes him look up, eyes bright and cocky, at his assaulter. It’s the last thing he sees.

_Crack_

Aziraphale sees red and it takes him a long time to realize that the iron rust of it is just the ground, the rocky earth, not death throes. He whirls around, panicked, because Crowley’s not in front of him. He’s found soon enough, though, a few feet away, the reddish dirt staining the knees of his jeans.

“There was—well, now you know why I kept saying God wouldn’t listen,” Crowley says, standing up and brushing his jeans off. “Though perhaps I was full of it, after all you were more, ah, virtuous than I was.”

He starts walking and Aziraphale can do nothing but follow.

“God wasn’t silent because you were a sinner, dear,” Aziraphale says into the silence.

“We’re almost out of this part,” Crowley says, almost interrupting him. “Good riddance, I hate all of Lucifer’s poetic symbolism. It stains my shoes and my pants, and I leave feeling like I rolled through the beach.”

VI

“This—ah, I don’t know how dangerous this is for you considering you’re not corporeal,” Crowley says, but he doesn’t stop. “There’s a bit of fire ahead. Just—uh, stick close, I guess, angel.”

It only takes a couple of minutes for Aziraphale to see what Crowley means. A huge pit of flames so wide it’s an ocean, tendrils snaking out onto the pathways.

“If you wanted any hellfire, well, here you go,” Crowley says, laughing weakly. “Though you didn’t seem to like that plan much last time.”

For a while Crowley is eerily silent, his words all dried up. He’s watching the flames warily, like they’re going to jump out at him and consume him entirely.

“This is a terrible place for one of Lucifer’s little trips, maybe he’ll give me a break,” Crowley says, scowling. “Let’s hurry before they burn us to pieces.”

This next one hits Aziraphale in flashes, little flickers like film burning before his eyes. He’s blinking back the double images of the past and the present for a moment, watching Crowley stumble ahead of him.

“Motherfuck,” Crowley swears, and then Aziraphale falls into a memory.

“If we don’t know the Plan how can we perform our duties?” Seraphel is asking, to a table of angels collected, listening. “She gave us the knowledge to know ourselves and gave us free will, and she _must_ have meant that, she _must_ have had more for—”

Aziraphale blinks and he’s back in Hell, watching Crowley stumble to his feet.

“Nah, fuck this,” Crowley says, “We’re getting home before I grow old.” They make it a handful of feet before another memory pulls them under.

“We can’t hold supreme power over our creations, we’re supposed to be—to be _angels_—that means benevolence, not dictatorship, they’re not one in the same—”

The firelight of Hell is brighter every time Aziraphale opens his eyes, and he makes his staggering way after Crowley who’s edging himself down the path, braced on a rock.

“Crowley, wait,” Aziraphale says, helplessly, and then he’s pulled under again.

“I’m not going to _kill_ our family,” Seraphel says, spitting, his face contorted in anger. “Whatever happened to diplomacy—”

“They’re sinners and murderers,” Metatron says, face placid.

“They were doing what God said,” Seraphel says.

“And they will continue to obey God’s will from outside of Heaven,” Metatron says, “A perspective that you may perhaps consider.”

The flames burn out until it’s Hell again, Crowley hunched forward on the rock wall.

“I don’t understand the point of this,” Crowley grinds out, sharp enough to make sparks. “We both lived through the war and after the stupid antichrist bit—augh.”

Crawly’s watching the floods from high up, wings beating against the torrent of rain. He stays there for hours, muscles straining, watching as fields turn to lakes and houses are submerged. People stand on roofs and climb trees until there are no higher peaks to climb, and then they toil until they’re just bubbles.

“If the cost of staying with Heaven was killing innocents then I’m glad they threw me out,” Crawly spits, so quiet it’s almost inaudible in the rain. “Damn them all to hell.”

This time when it fades it seems to stay gone, but Aziraphale and Crowley stay slumped against the ground for a long time, waiting.

“Alright,” Crowley says, standing. He cracks his neck, stretching like they’ve just been taking a break. “It’s too hot in here to stay around, we should get moving.”

Then Crowley’s making his double time pace back up to the surface, and Aziraphale races after him.

V

It gets damp shockingly quickly. As soon as the fire fades out into the distance the craggy earth turns slippery and soft with mud. It’s still wretchedly hot, and it reeks in an inconceivable way. Singed and swampy, like burning garbage.

“A lot of demons like it here,” Crowley scoffs, “Y’know, the swamp, I guess. Flies and frogs and lizards.” Despite what he’s saying Aziraphale’s yet to see a single soul on their travels, and especially not here. The swamplands are vast and empty, bubbling and boiling, but undisturbed beside for their footsteps.

“I’ve never been able to get over the smell, especially way out here. Least in the buildings it just smells like sulphur and demon, but out here it’s all ‘you’ll learn to love it’ and sure, right, but can’t we get some air fresheners in here?” Crowley makes a vague gesture outward, turning his head out to look at a deep murky lake they’re passing before snapping his head back. All Aziraphale catches is the edge of his glasses, the slightest flash of black. Crowley doesn’t make that mistake again.

“Or just some flowers. Flowers would brighten up the place a whole lot. A basic horticulturist could find something—there are plenty of tropical plants—ah fuck.”

Crowley must catch it before Aziraphale does because he’s collapsing to his knees.

“Cro—” Aziraphale can’t even get the word out before he’s falling down as well.

“—get special treatment because Lucifer liked you, huh?” A demon is shoving Crawly against a wall, pinning him. It’s dark, cramped, the ceiling low, the sharp stench of it make it even more claustrophobic.

“I don’t want to fight, just bugger off,” Crawly says, trying to shove the demon off him. It doesn’t work and in retribution he’s slammed back hard enough to make the breath wheeze out of him.

“Come on, serpent,” the demon says, “Bite.” Crawly’s digging into them with deep claws, hard enough to draw blood on the inner curve of their wrist. When he looks up the amber slits of his eyes are feral and furious.

“I sssaid,” Crawly says, monstrous. “I have no issue with you.”

“Let’s make one,” the demon says, and the fist that comes next hits Crawly hard enough for him to see stars. The crawling franticness that comes next is desperate and savage, bloody and furious, and Aziraphale finds himself wishing he could pull himself back. He doesn’t want to watch.

_Please,_ Aziraphale thinks,_ let him go, let him free, we didn’t ask for this._

Aziraphale stares at the unmoving form of Crawly, bruised and bleeding, still sneering up at the demon above him. He spits blood on their face and they just laugh, shoving Crawly’s face in the dirt.

“You’re no different than us,” they jeer, shoving Crawly down hard enough to make him grunt in pain. “You like to fight, you like the rush of it. You could’ve left if you wanted but you’re down here, waiting for us to take a bite of you.”

“Fuck off,” Crawly says, voice muffled.

“She cast you down, just like the rest of us, sweet,” the demon says. “Can’t deny that you’re a demon, no matter how much you—”

Abruptly Aziraphale’s thrown out of the memory, blinking away afterimages as he listens to Crowley mutter obscenities.

“Alright,” Crowley says, but he sounds a little shaken, a little off center this time around. “This is getting ridiculous. If Lucifer’s plan was for it to take another six thousand years for us to get out of Hell then he’s succeeding, but there were easier ways to deter us, I think.”

Aziraphale follows, of course he does, but he’s begun to the get the shape of it, he thinks. Crowley’s feet stick in the muck they’re treading through and it gives him a good topic to complain about, a handy distraction.

“Dumb cesspit of a swamp,” Crowley is saying, animated in his game of irritation. “You step in it and it sucks you down, and even when you get out you reek of it for ages.”

IV

The swamp fades and is quickly replaced with a slick metallic sheen like Aziraphale’s never seen before. It’s strangely smooth, a glassy, pale brown cast in irregular patches on the rocks, reflecting dully in the low light.

“I never quite understood this one, myself,” Crowley says, as they get closer. There are strange granular bits that crunch underfoot. Aziraphale stops to try to pick up a handful but his hand goes right through the ground, noncorporeal. He frowns, standing up again.

“Dear, I really wish you would tell me more about these kinds of things,” Aziraphale sighs, jogging to catch up. “To think all of this was down here and you never once mentioned it.”

“I just think it’s a bit heavy-handed to throw gold about as an allegory for greed,” Crowley says, scuffling his feet through the crunch of ground. It’s then that Aziraphale notices the deep pool the path begins to parallel. It’s full of gold, molten gold. The pool glows, hot as hellfire, the edges cooling into a shiny and metallic sheen. It’s magical, if not terrifying.

“Amazing,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley laughs. There’s a split second where Aziraphale thinks he heard him, but then he sees him staring at the pool.

“Such a waste,” Crowley says. “The humans would do incredible things to get their hands on that kind of thing. Which is why it’s down here, I guess.”

They make it about halfway past the pool when Aziraphale starts to feel the memories coming, but at first it comes at a distance. He continues walking, battling little flashes of Crowley collecting jewelry, then music, him buying the Bentley. They’re remarkably cheery memories considering the last hours, and Aziraphale prefers seeing Crowley surrounded by things he enjoys.

They’re almost past the pool of gold, almost ascending to the next level when Aziraphale sees Crowley heading back to the church to grab that statue.

“Good conquering evil,” Crowley laughs, putting it in his apartment and Aziraphale frowns as his gaze lingers a moment too long.

Before Aziraphale can even think that there’s something strange the memories are overcoming him again, faster than ever before. Almost too quick to decipher, he sees himself a thousand variations, smiling at Crowley.

He’s there at Eden, in the dark ages, in Paris, in Tokyo, in London, eating fancy dishes at Crowley’s side.

“Want to try?” Aziraphale sees himself asking, offering Crowley a bit of sushi on chopsticks. Flushing to the ears Crowley accepts, biting with overwhelming care.

He’s at his bookshop, watching as Crowley calculatedly sits next to Aziraphale, just far enough away that they don’t touch. He’s got his phone out, ostensibly reading something, but it’s open to nothing and he’s staring, face hungry—

“No,” Crowley says, and then they’re back in Hell. “No, no, get out of my personal life, you absolute sod.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, watching Crowley anxiously run hands through his hair. There’s something tight in Aziraphale’s throat, too tight to breathe. It’s a wrenching thing, too close to something that they both haven’t looked directly at in millennia. But this time Aziraphale can’t help but look.

“We’re almost there, this—if he thinks I’m ever doing another favor for him he’s wrong,” Crowley laughs, but it catches. “Don’t think about it, angel, just—let’s get home. We need to get home.”

Crowley doesn’t talk the rest of the walk up, and Aziraphale misses the sound of his voice. He stares out at the pool of molten gold, contemplative.

_The humans would do incredible things for that_ Crowley had said _which is why it’s down here_.

III

The coldness comes in one huge gust of wind, like they’ve just opened a door to a blizzard instead of walking a few feet. If Aziraphale was corporeal he would’ve feared tumbling back down the mountain, but Crowley just scowls and hunches forward, stepping into the iciness like he does this every day.

“How many times did you walk down here to see Lucifer?” Aziraphale asks, though he knows he won’t get an answer he still wants one. “This is such a trek, you’d think they’d put in an elevator.”

Aziraphale frowns, following after Crowley’s shuffling pace. “They put an elevator in Heaven,” Aziraphale says, “But I think that might be because Gabriel likes the music.”

“Hate this,” Crowley spits, “You’d think that Hell is supposed to be too warm and whatnot, but no, I’m always freezing my ass off faffing about like some sorta fool.” He shakes off a layer of ice from his hair, sending little beads of ice skittering across the ground. He snaps and nothing happens, only increasing his ire.

“Whatever. A hood would clash with my aesthetic anyway,” Crowley says, throwing up his hands.

“You didn’t try to miracle anything _sooner_?” Aziraphale asks, predictably not receiving any response. He snaps his own fingers and is still discouraged when nothing happens. “Lucifer is a tricky sort, I suppose.”

When the flashes of memories come back they’ve barely made any progress, making sluggish, trudging footsteps through the blinding ice. The memories aren’t strong enough to draw Aziraphale down, but he finds himself distracted, lost in the white around him.

It’s the same as before, just little snippets of their interactions together. Every glimpse wildly vacillates through the ages, flying from just after Eden to near modernity. But everything that holds it together is Aziraphale and Crowley, Crowley and Aziraphale, and Crowley’s open expression of raw vulnerability when Aziraphale isn’t looking.

The one that takes him under is one that he goes with almost willingly. It’s a night where Crowley had arrived drunk, slurring and bombastic. Slumped on the couch, he’d lain there for hours, staring glassily at Aziraphale as he talked about nothing at all.

Crowley snaps, and a glass fills in his hand. His head lulls back over the armrest of the couch, boneless.

“What happens when it ends,” Crowley asks no one, “When Heaven and Hell… what then.” Aziraphale frowns. He doesn’t remember this. He turns to see himself sleeping at his chair, book limp in his hands. He rarely ever sleeps, but with all the wine…

“I don’t want to go back,” Crowley says, surprisingly morose. Aziraphale whirls back to look at him, unmoved, the limp hold on his wineglass is somehow more poignant now. “There’s nothing there for me, but here…” He sits up, downing the whole glass in one gulp. “Here, I have you.”

“I shouldn’t be hearing this,” Aziraphale says, trying to turn away but every way he turns it’s just Crowley, Crowley, Crowley. Besides, he can’t escape his voice, and that’s where it counts.

“I want every part of you,” Crowley says, low, an earthly rumble. “Every part is mine.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything this time when they break out, nothing at all. He just gets up, hunching against the icy winds and plows ahead. Aziraphale almost loses him a couple times, the ferocity of the storm blinding. Each step they take the wind gets louder and louder and louder.

II

The wind becomes deafening before long. Even if Crowley was talking Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to hear him beneath the gale. Multiple times it knocks Crowley back, the force of it, a whirlwind, but he doesn’t stop him. Every time he’s back on his feet, barreling forward. Half the time his eyes are cinched closed lest he’s thrown too far and he catches a glimpse of Aziraphale.

It’s the silence that gets to Aziraphale. This whole time there’d been an impatient monologue, cataloguing every little thing. It was easy to know what to expect when Crowley had been complaining about it for the last twenty minutes. Even though the wind is loud enough to make Aziraphale’s ears ring, he finds the silence painful.

“I didn’t know that Hell had such interesting weather patterns,” Aziraphale yells, just to fill the void. “The wind and the ice—you’d think you’d had enough of that in London.”

He knows that Crowley can’t hear him but watching him trudge forward in silence makes a furious lump form in Aziraphale’s throat.

“I wish you’d talk again,” Aziraphale says. “You never tell me about your past and oh—I don’t want to learn about it like this, but I wish you’d say something.”

Crowley trips, his knees hitting the dirt. He’s torn a hole in one of the knees at some point, and there’s blood seeping into the fabric.

“I try—I try to be honest about Heaven, Crowley, I do. I know you want to know, even if it’s unsavory to talk about,” Aziraphale says. “I’d answer anything you wanted to know if you just asked, I just don’t know why it’s something we’re not supposed to talk about.”

Crowley’s unrelenting pace doesn’t falter, and Aziraphale follows, feeling strangely overwhelmed.

“I just hope you know that there’s nothing Lucifer can show me that is so reproachable that it will change my opinion of you,” Aziraphale says, quiet enough that he knows it will be swallowed by the wind. It doesn’t matter, there’s no one to hear him anyway. “I wish you could trust me with everything.”

When the memory bleeds in he lets it, no use in fighting, really. It’s firelight warm, and the first thing that he catches is heavy breathing. It’s with a moment of alarm that he realizes he’s in a darkened bedroom, and Crowley’s being kissed by a human.

Crowley’s disheveled on the bed, his shirt unbuttoned and someone is kneeling above him, body bracketing Crowley’s. The human’s hands drift down, down across Crowley’s heaving chest to somewhere unseen, making him jolt.

“Alright?” The man asks, pulling away slightly.

“Ah,” Crowley says, his hands visibly clenching and unclenching at the human’s back. “I—I’m sorry, I—no, I can’t—” The moment Crowley started to stutter the human climbed off of him, and by the end Crowley’s got his face buried in his hands.

“Hey, you’re alright. No big,” the man says. He runs his hand through his hair, just long enough to stick up strangely at the mistreatment.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says again.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Nothing special,” Crowley laughs, a self-deprecating note. “Every so often I think I can do this, but when I get here all I can think about is—”

The memory changes, flickering like old film. There are dozens of flashes, too quick to understand, before he sees Crowley, restless in his bed in Mayfair. There, beneath the downy comforter he writhes, legs bent, toes clenching.

In the heaving rush of his breath he gasps, “Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale feels himself flush to the very bones of him, mouth agape, and he tries his hardest not to pay attention and leave Crowley some dignity. It’s not very long before a voice comes to him again, the human, and Aziraphale can’t help but listen.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of loving someone,” the human says with a delicate smile. Crowley shakes his head, offering up a smile of his own.

“It’s dangerous to want too much,” Crowley says. “Everyone knows that.”

Aziraphale opens his eyes back in Hell with trepidation, almost afraid at what he might find. He doesn’t know what kind of backpedaling Crowley was going to start after having his privacy breached like that.

Yet, it turns out to be for nothing because Crowley stands without a word, walking through the storm without hesitation.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale says, wringing his hands. “You’re right, yes, we’ll talk about it when we get to the surface. Right you are.”

They near the edge of the storm, where the severity of it begins to peter out.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says again, “We’ll be okay when we get to the surface.”

I

After everything before it the last leg of the trek is the most benign. There are hollow mouths of caves that seem to leave nowhere, but there are no monsters, no storms, no fire, no ice. Just a craggy rock path that Aziraphale could mistake for an abandoned hiking trail.

The memories start to come on before long and surprisingly Crowley stops, sitting right where he stands. When the memories overcome them it’s only Aziraphale who’s falling to his knees with it.

And then he watches as Seraphel, all angel, all glorious light, falls from Heaven. He falls and falls and falls until he lands next to Aziraphale’s side in Eden. He stares into Aziraphale’s eyes, warm blue, molten gold in their warmth, and Crawly burns again.

Building any story where there’s a heroic ending, there’s Alpha Centauri, there’s Satan, there’s Heaven and hellfire. Yet, a demon crawls up from Hell and slays the angel and leaves Crowley with a corpse. Crowley sits with Aziraphale’s still form in his arms, EMS babbling all around him and he shoves them back, overwrought. In that story he’s no hero, he barely manages to get them away from prying eyes, and then with Aziraphale’s blood soaked into every stitch of him, he cries. He cries until he’s sick.

And then Crowley burns.

There’s flying down to the pits of Hell, Aziraphale’s holy blade in hand, ready to die for a future he thought he already safeguarded.

The story he wants to tell is how he went down to Hell and tore every piece of it apart in search for his angel, but that’s not the truth. The sword was not Crowley’s to wield and it was unwieldy, unfamiliar.

Instead, every guard in this story was swayed by his words, by his temptations, by his bargaining. He brought fruits and breads and gemstones through the gates of hell to convince every creature who stopped him. The fates and furies themselves grew dewy-eyed at his story. And Cerberus is easy, what’s another hellhound. Now that he can handle Dog, it goes without a hitch.

Hades and Persephone couldn’t be tempted by goods and sweet words, and he barters and pleads until he’s at his knees.

“He’s the love of my life,” Crowley says, his voice cracking, “I need him.”

“He’s a prisoner of Hell,” Hades says, shying away from Persephone’s beseeching expression.

“Lucifer can cast me away,” Crowley begs, “But let me try. Please.”

“We had another like you, once,” Persephone says, a delicate smile on her face. “May it go better for you than it did him.”

Then he’s standing at Lucifer’s throne.

Then he’s saying, “Lord, he’s mine, and I will take him home.”

“Home,” Lucifer laughs, “No matter what you say or do, your home will always be here.”

“But not him. You’re not taking him,” Crowley says.

“I’m not taking him anywhere,” Lucifer says, “But Aziraphale here knows that I’ve made a deal with Heaven, and if he stays, he’ll find himself back in God’s good graces. Don’t you want that?”

“You’re lying,” Crowley shakes his head, eyes flickering about nervously. He tries to look unshaken, looking up at Lucifer with lucid eyes. “Let him go.”

And then Crowley walks out of Hell.

.

Aziraphale can see the border to the sunlight, but just before Crowley steps out of Hell he stops. Warily, Aziraphale approaches his still form, counting the moments of silence. Crowley’s shoulders are taunt with tension, hitched up to his ears.

“Come on, dear,” Aziraphale whispers. “Another couple steps and we can go home.”

Crowley sighs, pressing a hand to his mouth. Whatever kind of expression he’s battling Aziraphale can’t see it, still hidden from him.

“I kept thinking about turning back,” Crowley says. “Maybe you want this—this favor from Lucifer.”

“That’s not it,” Aziraphale says, pleading. “Crowley.”

“What are you going to think after all this,” Crowley laughs, running his hand over his face. Off comes the glasses, tucked into the collar of his shirt. “You’re going to think I’m a monster.”

“Never,” Aziraphale says.

“I just keep thinking of your lifeless body in my arms, angel,” Crowley says. “I still have your blood under my fingernails, it wouldn’t miracle away. I just want to see you’re alright.”

“You will,” Aziraphale says.

“I’m scared to walk three feet,” Crowley laughs, and it comes out wrong. “I don’t want you to leave me behind.”

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” Aziraphale says. “Go, my love.”

There’s nothing immediately impressionable about passing to the surface at first. Crowley breaks into the sunlight, squinting up at the brightness of it, and Aziraphale hurries half a step behind. At first, he’s afraid it didn’t work, that he’ll remain noncorporeal forever, but then there’s a tingling in his hands and toes and he’s back.

Crowley still hasn’t turned around, his back tense, shoulders drawn, like he’s waiting for a blow. It takes Aziraphale two steps to appear on the other side of him, to see his eyes closed behind his shades in agonized unease. It takes a third step to throw his arms around Crowley, to feel the shuddered gasp catch in his chest.

“Aziraphale,” he breathes, arms coming up to clutch back at him.

“You stupid, silly thing,” Aziraphale scolds, watching Crowley’s mouth part in surprise. “I adore every part of you, every wretched iota, and if you had left me behind, I never would’ve forgiven you.” Crowley laughs, a cracking thing, holding Aziraphale that much tighter.

“Sorry, angel,” he says, his voice breaking. “Won’t do it again.”

“Better not,” Aziraphale says, kissing his head, trying to show the love for every part of him. “You did so well, so brave to save me, you have to leave some of the heroism for me.”

“I think I’ve had enough for a couple millennia,” Crowley manages. Aziraphale runs his hand through the short hairs at the back of Crowley’s neck, soothingly.

“Alright,” Aziraphale agrees, “But I have a lot to tell you. We’re long overdue for home.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! 
> 
> i'm apparently incapable of writing anything normal for good omens. i came out of this not really liking it, but, well, what can you do. it's here now. i hope you all enjoyed, regardless. <33 
> 
> also i blatantly stole crowley's angel name from [this](https://wheeloffortune-design.tumblr.com/post/188489603275/wait-what-if-crowleys-angelic-name), because i adore it, and they're right, they should say it.


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